


He's got a bulletproof heart (I've got a hollowpoint smile)

by dishonestdreams



Series: 100 Fandoms [4]
Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: A Fever You Can't Sweat Out Era, Biting, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Semi-Public Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:23:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22072810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dishonestdreams/pseuds/dishonestdreams
Summary: Brendon is not going to be that guy.  No scandal, noBehind the Musicspecial, no messy band break-up.  Not gonna happen, no way.In hindsight, he probably should have made sure Spencer shared his good intentions...
Relationships: Spencer Smith/Brendon Urie
Series: 100 Fandoms [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1450570
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25
Collections: Scribblers' 100 Fandoms Challenge





	He's got a bulletproof heart (I've got a hollowpoint smile)

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was looking for inspiration for a title for another fic, and I came across this quote: _Don't bite your lip or you'll find yourself slammed against the wall with my hands pressed between your legs. So, unless you want that, don't bite your fucking lip._
> 
> And my brain kind of exploded and this happened. Eh, I own my kinks.
> 
> Special thinks to the amazing MistressKat who went through this, pointed out all the mistakes and made me fix all the repetitive and shit bits (even though all I'd asked her to do was read it and let me know what she thought). She goes above and beyond because she's awesome and she made it so much better, anything that still sucks is 100% mine.
> 
> Also claimed as fic the fourth in my 100 fandoms challenge (because I will deny to the end of time that bandom is just one fandom. My challenge, my rules)

The lights are down low, the bass line is thudding in time with Brendon’s pulse and he can’t help but laugh. He throws his head back, baring his neck to the sweat-heavy air that’s surrounding him and lets himself move to the beat; held up and held in by the hot press of bodies all around him. It might be a Wednesday night, but the place is still packed, and all Brendon can smell is the unmistakeable mix of fresh sweat and a heady blend of perfume-aftershave-cologne.

Pete knows the _best_ clubs.

Brendon lets his eyes slip closed and pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth, just letting the beat and the crowd move him. He’s been dancing for a few hours now, he thinks; he doesn’t really know, because he’s lost track of time almost as thoroughly as he’s lost track of his band. He hasn’t seen any of them since he hit the dancefloor, although he’s prepared to bet that Brent has snuck off to call his girlfriend and that Ryan and Spencer are doing whatever fucking important thing it is they think they need to do that doesn’t involve Brendon.

Fuck them; Brendon doesn’t care. He’s _dancing_. 

Warm hands settle on his waist and he startles, eyes flying open, only for his shoulders to drop when he realises who it is. Spencer’s touch is light, his expression hooded, and Brendon tilts his head at him questioningly. Spencer leans in slowly, and Brendon doesn’t shiver, he _doesn’t_, when Spencer’s nose brushes against his cheek as Spencer positions himself to put his mouth close to Brendon’s ear.

They’ve _just_ made it. Brendon is not going to be _that_ guy; the one who gets a wildly inappropriate crush on one of his bandmates and tears the band apart before the first album has even dropped. Even if that bandmate is _Spencer_, who is hotter than the sun, probably knows Brendon better than he knows himself and who has seen him at his absolute worst and still seems to like him. Frankly, Brendon thinks he deserves a medal for his self-restraint.

“You need to stop that,” Spencer says, his mouth close enough for Brendon to hear him, even over the thrumming bassline. Brendon blinks, because, wait, what?

He turns his head, just enough to line his mouth up to Spencer’s ear and ignores the way that the spicy smell of whatever shower gel Spencer has been using floods into his nostrils. “Stop what?”

“Biting your lip.”

Brendon blinks again, and he wonders if maybe he needs to stop and get a drink of water, because either his brain is fried or Spencer isn’t making any sense. He pulls back, just enough to see, and gives Spencer a searching look that tells him exactly nothing. Spencer just looks back at him, expression inscrutable, and seriously, Brendon has no fucking idea what is going on here.

“Biting my lip? Really?” he asks, dubiously. “The fuck, Spence?” 

Spencer fucking _growls_ and Brendon starts, his eyes wide as he stares at Spencer uncomprehendingly. He’s pretty sure he must look like a complete idiot (then again, he’s talking to Spencer, so there’s nothing new there. Brendon has made a fucking _career_ of making an idiot of himself in front of Spencer). Spencer stares back at him, and his fingers flex unconsciously on Brendon’s waist.

“I am _trying_ to do the right thing here, Bren,” he says tightly, “But I’m not a saint, and if you don’t stop biting your lip, you’re going to find yourself slammed against that wall over there with my tongue in your month and my hand down your pants before you even have a chance to ask what I’m doing. Unless that’s what you want, you need to fucking _stop_.”

Brendon jerks back like he’s been burnt because, really, what the _fuck_? At first glance, Spencer’s as unreadable as before, but Brendon’s looking now, _really_ looking and now that he knows what he’s looking for, he finds it. Spencer’s eyes are clouded, but that’s not alcohol. Spencer’s turned on. _Fuck_, Spencer wants him, and he’s throwing down the gauntlet. Brendon has no idea why – this is new; Spencer’s never given any hint before that he’s interested – but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Self-restraint can go fuck itself; Brendon can see the challenge in the set of Spencer’s mouth and in the tilt of his shoulders and, well. He’s never backed down from a challenge in his life. If Spencer’s not holding back, Brendon doesn’t see any reason why _he_ should.

He locks eyes with Spencer and waits, just until he’s sure that he has Spencer’s complete and undivided attention, and then carefully, deliberately, he pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth.

Spencer hisses in a breath between _his_ teeth, his eyes widening and then narrowing, as he fixes Brendon with the most calculating look Brendon has ever seen him give. They’re locked in that tableau for one frozen second, just long enough for Brendon’s stomach to flip and for him to start second-guessing what he’s done. Fuck, double fuck, he said he wasn’t going to be that guy and if Spencer leaves the band, Ryan is going to _kill him_. Then Spencer’s hands slide down and his fingers tighten until they’re biting into Brendon’s hips and Brendon just stops thinking.

“I warned you,” Spencer says, and his left hand curls round until his fingers are splayed against the small of Brendon’s back. Then they’re suddenly moving; Spencer using his hold to propel Brendon backwards. He has no idea how Spencer does it, because they should definitely have collided with at least one body on the way, but there’s nothing that slows them down until Brendon’s shoulder blades hit the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him. He arches his back instinctively in response to the dull ache that resonates down his spine, but then Spencer’s _there_; a hard line of heat against his front. He’s tucked them into a corner, away from the bright lights and the press of bodies, and Brendon has nowhere to go.

Not that he really _wants_ to be anywhere else.

Spencer’s hand smooths up his back to tangle in his hair, and Brendon whimpers as Spencer tugs his head to where he wants it. Not that anyone, Brendon included, actually hears the whimper, because Spencer’s mouth is already pressed hard against his. His tongue teases against Brendon’s lips, and Brendon is _so fucking easy_ for Spencer, because he just opens up. Then Spencer’s tongue is curling against his and Brendon’s brain kind of shorts out. Spencer kisses like he drums, all ferocity and single-minded determination, biting and licking at Brendon’s mouth like he can’t get enough, and just the feel of it, the promise behind it, makes Brendon’s toes curl in his boots. He reaches out blindly, fisting his fingers into Spencer’s shirt, and just holds on for the ride.

Spencer pulls back slightly, tugging Brendon’s bottom lip between his teeth as he goes, and Brendon whines, straining forward to chase after the taste of Spencer’s mouth without really meaning to. Then Spencer’s hand slides into his boxers (and seriously, _seriously_, how did he not notice Spencer undoing his pants?!) and Brendon chokes on his next breath.

Spencer laughs, the vibration of it buzzing against Brendon’s lips. “I warned you,” he says again, low and just for Brendon to hear it. “You never fucking listen.”

Brendon wants to argue, but just then Spencer curls his hand around Brendon’s dick, his grip firm and calloused and just the right side of rough, and Brendon’s head falls back against the wall with a solid thunk. He’s hard, of course; he’s been hard since Spencer first touched him out on the dancefloor and his hips stutter helplessly against Spencer’s hold.

“Open your eyes, Brendon,” Spencer murmurs, and Brendon hadn’t even realised he’d closed them, but Spencer’s right; he should definitely be able to see more than he can, and _fuck_, he doesn’t want to _miss_ this. He blinks, his eyes meeting Spencer’s and his breath catches in his throat. Spencer’s eyes are so dark that they’re almost black, just a thin circle of icy blue ringing around his pupils, and his gaze is hot and heavy, palpable as a touch against Brendon’s skin. Brendon swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and the smile Spencer shoots him is positively _scorching_.

“Hold on,” he says, and he drags his fingers up Brendon’s cock, his little finger just hooking under the head. It’s too dry and too slow, and Brendon doesn’t fucking care because it’s _Spencer_, and even this is enough to set his skin humming.

Spencer doesn’t move again for what feels like the longest moment of Brendon’s life and Brendon gets it - the angle’s for shit and Brendon’s pants are _tight_ – but just _waiting_, with Spencer’s eyes locked on his and Spencer’s fingers wrapped in a loose fist around his cock, is too _much_. Brendon’s practically vibrating on the spot, unconscious rocking on the balls of his feet that he can’t control, and he feels like he might explode out of his skin if something doesn’t fucking _happen_. Then Spencer shifts, just enough to shield Brendon from any prying eyes in the room, and he tugs Brendon’s cock free of his pants. He lets go and brings his hand up to his mouth to lick a long, slow stripe over his palm that makes Brendon’s cock twitch. Spencer shoots him a smirk, a filthy, suggestive twitch of his lips, before he wraps his fingers back around Brendon’s cock.

Then he takes Brendon apart.

He starts slow; long, drawn out pulls along Brendon’s cock that are just the wrong side of firm, every one finishing with a twist of his wrist that sends sparks ricocheting down Brendon’s spine to pool low and deep in his belly and make his hips jerk against Spencer’s hold. He’s varying the rhythm; nothing that Brendon can get too settled into, first excruciating slow, then faster and faster until his pace matches the low thrum of the music around; a quick, sharp slide of his palm up and down Brendon’s cock, his thumb curling around on some indeterminable pattern to stroke across Brendon’s balls when he least expects it, and Brendon’s mouth falls open on a pant.

Spencer leans forward, tugging Brendon’s bottom lip between his teeth as he scrapes his fingernails up the side of Brendon’s cock and Brendon’s answering groan is lost into his mouth. It’s like Spencer’s drawn a direct line from his mouth to his cock; the sharp press of his teeth merging with the ragged burn of his fingernails to turn Brendon inside out. He’s gasping into Spencer’s mouth, his fingers pulling erratically on Spencer’s shirt and he can’t stop watching Spencer watching him fall apart. 

He’s lost so deeply in Spencer’s eyes that his orgasm catches him by surprise and he isn’t ready for it when the pleasure suddenly crests; a lightning bolt that starts at his toes and races up his thighs. He stiffens, his mouth falling open as his cock twitches and he feels himself spill all over Spencer’s fingers.

“Yeah,” Spencer breathes. “Fucking gorgeous.”

Brendon can’t answer; his head is spinning and there are flecks of light in his eyes that are making it hard to focus, with the aftershocks shivering through his entire body. He slumps forward, letting Spencer hold his weight, and dimly, he’s aware of Spencer dealing with the mess and carefully tucking Brendon away. Abstractly, he’s sort of grateful - now that Spencer’s not touching him, it’s really clear that they’re still in a very public place and Brendon’s not sure their career needs _that_ kind of exposure.

Spencer shifts against him and Brendon jolts involuntarily, because that’s…oh, _fuck_, Spencer’s _hard_. Spencer’s hard because of what they just did, because of _him_ and it probably shouldn’t come as this much of a surprise, but even the idea fries Brendon’s brain a little bit.

He uncurls his fingers from the death grip he has on Spencer’s shirt, letting his hand trail down Spencer’s chest. Spencer catches his wrist before he’s even halfway to his destination with a shake of his head, and Brendon shoots him a questioning look. He may also pout, a little bit. He’s admitting nothing.

“Not here,” Spencer says, with another one of those blindingly brilliant smiles. Then he’s crowding Brendon impossibly closer against the wall, his mouth ghosting across Brendon’s jaw before he’s biting down on Brendon’s bottom lip again. Brendon _jerks_ at the press of Spencer’s teeth, enough to feel without being enough to hurt, and his cock twitches in a valiant attempt to get hard again.

“So, the lip thing,” he says, the words little more than a breath straight into Spencer’s mouth, and it’s kind of hard to talk when Spencer’s biting him, but Brendon is prepared to give it his best shot. “It’s really a _thing_?”

Spencer hums in agreement, but he doesn’t seem inclined to let go of Brendon’s mouth to actually answer and, _fuck_, that’s hotter than it should be. Brendon’s breath hitches, just a little, and he scrabbles uselessly against Spencer’s shirt.

“_Spencer_,” he says, and it comes out a little less urgent and a little more desperate than he’d been planning. Spencer releases his mouth with one last tug. “Um, hotel?”

He holds his breath. It’s kind of forward, given that Spencer just stopped him and maybe Spencer does want to stop (which would _suck_). Spencer hadn’t said _no_, though, he’d said _not here_. Brendon is self-aware enough to admit that he’s both an eternal optimist and a little bit hedonistic and he would _really_ like to get his hands on Spencer’s cock before the opportunity passes him by.

Spencer just got him off against the wall in the middle of a nightclub. Brendon doesn’t figure he has much to lose by asking.

“Idiot,” Spencer says, and Brendon jumps a little, because it doesn’t _feel_ like a rejection, but it does kind of _sound_ like one.

“What?”

“You’re thinking I might say no,” Spencer says, and Brendon lifts his shoulders as he best he can in an awkward shrug because, well. _Yeah_.

Spencer rolls his eyes. “Do you think there’s anyone here that would bite their lip and come back to the hotel with me if I asked them?” he asks, with a jerk of his head that encompasses the whole room and Brendon swallows against the sick lump that forms, unasked for, in the back of his throat.

“Sure,” he says, with a forced lightness that he’s pretty sure Spencer knows him well enough to see through, but whatever. “Why wouldn’t they? You’re a rock star.”

“Exactly,” Spencer says dryly. “So, given that I have other options – ones that come with no strings attached, no complications and no risk of Ryan bitching me out – why would I choose you?”

“I-“ Brendon pauses on his instinctive avoidance because, actually, that is a fucking good question and the more he thinks about it, the more he’s starting to wonder if he might like the answer. “Because it’s _not_ a lip thing?”

Spencer smiles at him, slow but no less heated for it, and Brendon swallows against the surge of _want_ that pulses up in his belly. “It _is_ a lip thing,” he corrects. “It’s just…kind of person specific. I wasn’t going to do anything about it, but…” He trails off with a shrug, shooting Brendon a look from under his eyelashes.

“Oh,” Brendon says. It swells up inside him; something light and bright and fucking delighted, because he hadn’t quite been daring to hope for _this_. It’s almost overwhelming, except that Spencer’s right here with him, a press of heat that’s equal parts grounding and irresistible, and he smooths his hands down Spencer’s shoulders. He’s mostly sure now that he’s allowed. “So, hotel.”

“Actually, I was actually thinking we could just stay here for a bit,” Spencer says thoughtfully, his fingers flexing where he’s still got them buried in Brendon’s hair, “We can just make out against this wall until you’re back to being as hard as I am. _Then_, hotel.”

“Oh,” Brendon says, and he licks his lips without even thinking about it. He doesn’t miss the way Spencer’s focus sharpens, his eyes tracking the movement, and Brendon swallows against a suddenly dry throat. Just like that, they’re right back there. “Oh, yeah, okay. That sounds…yeah.”

“Glad you approve,” Spencer murmurs, not looking away from Brendon’s mouth, and it’s not a big surprise when he presses back in to claim it again. It’s a slow, open kiss. Spencer’s tongue curls against his in a way that promises wicked, _wicked_ things, and Spencer’s teeth catch against his lips in a way that’s half enticement and half warning and, Brendon thinks, wholly deliberate. It’s enough to make the hairs on his back of his neck stand up and, when Spencer slips a thigh between his legs, smooth as butter, he can’t help the way his hips lift in response.

Spencer breaks the kiss, pulling back far enough to murmur a throaty encouragement against Brendon’s mouth. Brendon whimpers, chasing after Spencer without really thinking about it, because it’s too _soon_. The staticky drag of his boxers against his cock is both glorious and excruciating, a hot curl of desire that’s edged with barbs. He can’t work out whether he wants to pull away or press closer and he can’t, he _can’t_ fucking do this without Spencer’s mouth to distract him. It’s too much; every nerve ending is buzzing and burning all at once, it’s terrifying and it’s heady and every rock of his hips against Spencer’s thigh makes his breath stutter out in an explosive staccato. 

But he can’t fucking _stop_.

Spencer tips his head to one side, tantalisingly close but infuriatingly out of reach. “So fucking gorgeous, Brendon,” he says again, almost reverent in a way that makes Brendon’s chest ache, like it’s too full to hold everything that’s in there. Spencer rocks forward, his hips twisting filthily against Brendon’s in a way that feels fucking amazing against his aching cock and Brendon bites down hard on his bottom lip to hold back his moan.

Spencer goes unnaturally still, and Brendon’s hips jolt in an aborted grind as Spencer’s thigh pins him into place; burning bright pressure on his cock that makes his breath hitch. “Spence!” he whines, and Spencer growls, using his grip in Brendon’s hair to tip his head back, exposing his throat and making space for him to drag his teeth down the side of Brendon’s neck. It’s not a real bite, just the promise of one, but it’s enough to send a shiver down Brendon’s spine and he groans.

“Spence, c’mon!” 

“You are a fucking tease,” Spencer says, his mouth still pressed against the skin of Brendon’s throat, “And just for that, I’m gonna make you come in your jeans, like a fucking teenager.”

Brendon’s totally going to point out that that they’re both fucking teenagers, but he doesn’t have a chance before Spencer grinds down against him, just _so_, and he pretty much loses the ability to make words. It’s a fair trade off, he figures, because now Spencer’s moving, really moving against him; a heavy, rhythmic twist and roll of his hips that makes Brendon’s cock twitch against the pressure. It’s good, it’s too fucking good, and he’s clutching at Spencer’s shoulders under the intensity of it; that low, deep, forceful pulse in his groin acting against the acid drag of _toomuchtoomuchtoosoon_ that sends shivers racking through him with every press of Spencer’s thigh.

“Spence,” he chokes out, and Spencer’s mouth curls, pressing a silent, heated smile into his skin.

“C’mon, B,” he says, but Brendon _can’t_. He’s drawn tight; tense vibration and sparking sensation that ebbs and flows in time with Spencer’s movements, but it isn’t _enough_. Not this soon, and he can’t. Even as Spencer rocks closer, the twist of his hips faster and more insistent, Brendon feels like he’s clawing after an unobtainable edge; the crest of the wave that he’s riding just sitting painfully, infuriatingly out of reach.

Then Spencer shifts again, just a fraction, just enough to let him sink his teeth into Brendon’s throat. It’s a blinding pain; sharp and sudden and possessive, and Brendon shouts out as his orgasm bites through him like the rake of barbed wire over his skin. It’s excruciating; burning pleasure with a scouring edge; every nerve ending singing and screaming at the same time, as he shudders and shakes his way through it. Brendon hates it; he can’t stand it.

He doesn’t want it to stop. 

When he comes back to himself, Spencer’s pressed hard against him; a thrumming line of tension and heat along his front, his face buried at the juncture between Brendon’s throat and his shoulder.

“Don’t fucking move,” Spencer growls, his words vibrating against Brendon’s throat, and Brendon groans as he realises what Spencer’s trying to do, what Spencer’s trying to _stop_. For whatever fucking reason, Spencer doesn’t want to come (and Brendon has no idea why, because this feels fucked up and _amazing_) and he’s fighting it back. He’s fighting because it’s difficult; it’s a fight _because_ of Brendon and that’s the hottest fucking thing that has ever happened to him. He bites down savagely on his lip to hold back the shudder that threatens to wreak through him just at the thought, and Spencer shifts against him, his hand dropping down from Brendon’s hair to press his thumb against the seam where his teeth meet his lip.

“You never fucking learn, do you” he says, and it’s hot promise and fond admonishment all wound together; so utterly _Spencer_ that it makes Brendon’s chest feel tight. Then he realises what Spencer’s actually _saying_ and his eyes widen, because holy _fuck_.

“Spence,” he says, and he’s scrabbling again at the soft fabric of Spencer’s shirt, bouncing on the balls of his feet, but he can’t help himself. “_Spence_, dude, come on. I _can’t_. I didn’t mean to. I swear. Not again, _please_ because I really will fucking die up against this wall, I can’t-”

“Hotel,” Spencer bites out, cutting him off. He pulls away, his eyes dark, and wraps his fingers unforgivingly tight around Brendon’s wrist. “_Now_, Brendon.” 

Brendon doesn’t argue. Turns out, sometimes he _does_ learn.


End file.
